Better Than Me
by Requiescat in Pace il Ti Amor
Summary: Sherlock has returned from the dead, but all is not well between the renowned consulting detective and his side kick, John Watson. There is a new wall between the two of them, one that Sherlock must decide to break down or build stronger. M/M Johnlock Small reference to Frozen as well.


He stood silently to one side, his hands in the pockets of his borrowed duster, a pained expression on his face. His leg ached terribly, even as he convinced himself the pain was not truly there.

Ten yards away, another man stood with a half-ring of officers at his back. They watched him with varying expressions ranging from amusement to contempt.

"John!" The first man jerked from the shout and looked around, frowning.

Inspector Donovan was walking toward him, her springy hair bound tightly in a hair tie and net. She wore plastic boots over heels that were almost too high for her to manage so the blood on the asphalt wouldn't stain them.

"Good to have you back," she said. "A shame the freak had to come with." She nodded toward the man who stood before the officers.

"I would appreciate if you wouldn't call him a freak," John said stiffly. "And besides, we come as a package deal. You can't have one without the other."

Donovan studied John, disapproval plain in her features. "Alright, fine," she conceded. "What do you see here?"

John glanced over the three heavy sheets of tarp which covered each of the bodies. He had been called here from home, just as he was getting ready for dinner. His stomach roiled in a confused growl of hunger and revulsion. The stench of blood hung heavy in the humid air, saturating the clothes of the inspectors and their consults. It would take at least three washes to scrub the smell away.

Carefully placing his feet to avoid the pools of blood near the heads, John circled the three corpses. They were spread out without any sense of pattern, as if they had been shot and killed in no special way. He knelt down and pulled one of the sheets back, grimacing as it came away with a wet squelching sound.

"God," he muttered, standing again and pressing the back of his wrist to his mouth. His gloves smelled of polyester and blood. He stripped them off his hands and tossed them aside. "I don't know," he sighed, making his way back to Donovan. "I see a lot of blood and a few corpses. Holmes should be able to tell you more."

"I don't want _his_ opinion," Donovan said snootily. "I want _yours_. The licensed medical doctor. Not the man who just came back from the dead."

John snorted at that. "You don't want my opinion, Inspector." He eyed her pointedly and then turned away, walking around the inside of the police tape circle until he reached the group of police officers.

"Just tell us how you did it," Anderson was whining in his nasal voice. "If you tell us, we'll shut up."

"I would honestly prefer you shut up anyway," Sherlock retorted in a level tone. "And even if you won't, I still don't have to answer to you. Besides, I rather like the idea of you floundering in whatever ideas you've concocted."

John came to a stop ten feet from the consulting detective and shuddered in his coat. Despite the humidity, he felt a chill, as if a breeze had suddenly blown up the back of his duster.

"Evening," he said cautiously. He wasn't sure how Sherlock would react to him. The first time the man had laid eyes on him after coming back, he had been so cold...there hadn't been anything in that look that could have been construed as friendly.

Sherlock turned to look at John and glanced over him dismissively. "Evening," he replied before turning back to the bodies.

Kneeling beside the first corpse, Sherlock took in the information it had to offer. Not much, but enough to tell him the man was a worker in the coal factories who owned a cat and had recently returned from an out-of-country trip.

He stood and walked toward the second and discovered nothing of interest. A businesswoman with two children according to the locket around her neck.

The third told him the interesting story of a well-traveled man who had recently burglarized a business establishment based upon the blue stains on his fingertips and palms.

Sherlock replaced the tarp and turned to look at John, who quietly conversed with Lestrade.

"He just isn't the same," he read from John's lips. He didn't bother to watch for Lestrade's response, but he didn't look away from his former partner. Instead, he focused on the blond, focused on how his lips moved when he spoke, on curve of his jaw, the hurt, confused look in his sharp eyes. He remembered how those eyes had closed when he had pressed their lips together, when he had guided himself into the other's body. He remembered the sounds those lips had produced in screams and moans and cries of ecstasy.

Sherlock licked his lips and almost took a step forward, almost walked across the bloody parking lot to his former partner and lover, almost crushed their lips together and bent him back against the cruiser behind him. He almost, _almost_ ground their hips together until John was panting and trembling in front of him.

A case to work, someone to fantasize about, and three corpses with stories to tell? It was all too much. He stood and gritted his teeth as his swollen length tented his jeans. After a bit of shirt tucking and pea coat buttoning, he managed to hide it, but he couldn't suppress a shudder. _Save it for later_, he thought. _There's work to be done._

Later that week, after an extravagantly disappointing conclusion to what turned out to be an incredibly simple case, Sherlock strode down the sidewalk leading to his flat. He was rather enjoying his walk when a shorter male with a slight limp walked at his side.

"So your limp is back," he said conversationally, avoiding looking at the man.

"So it is," John replied, ruffling his duster. "Bit chilly out for just that, isn't it?" He gestured to the light jacket Sherlock wore.

"It suits me."

They walked in silence for a while, their footsteps echoing on the nearly-abandoned pavement. Most people would be at home, having dinner. But not these two. They never were like most people...never.

"You've been avoiding me," John stated, stopping beside the door to the flat he hadn't stepped foot near in over a year.

Sherlock pulled his keys out and flipped through them, looking for the right one. "Very observant of you," he said sarcastically. "You might put me out of a job." He saw John look away, a contrite expression in his eyes. He didn't care. John was nothing to him. Nothing. Less than nothing. He was normal. _Boring_.

"Sherlock," John started, but he was cut off by the door opening and slamming shut in his face.

The door opened immediately after it shut and John stalked into the hallway. "What in the bloody hell was that?" he demanded. The contrition had left him, now replaced by anger and indignation.

"That was me, ending a conversation," Sherlock droned as he removed his jacket and hung it in a hall closet. "You must not be very good at taking cues."

John caught up to Sherlock at the end of the hall, just before the stairs and turned him around with a hand on his shoulder. He shoved the taller man against the wall, making a picture frame rattle on its nail.

"Why don't you stop being such a prick," John hissed, "and tell me why you're acting like this."

Sherlock looked down at John, felt nothing but contempt. What was a _normal_ person like this doing, shoving him against walls? Demanding answers? Why was he here? To bother him? Distract him? He needed a case.

"I don't have time for this," he said, trying to duck around the other.

"No!" John slapped his hand against the wall and leaned on it, barring Sherlock from moving. "Tell me why you're acting this way. You act like I killed your mother. Like I'm some kind of...some kind of bug to be scraped off your shoe." He looked up at Sherlock, and the helplessness in his eyes almost broke Holmes's resolve. Almost.

"John," Sherlock purred, moving his hands to the shorter man's cheeks. He leaned forward, put his mouth close to John's. He could smell coffee on the other's breath, and he wanted to taste it, wanted to taste _John_. After a trembling moment, Sherlock breathed, "I've moved on."

He pulled back and brushed John's arm aside with ease. The detective didn't look over his shoulder, didn't stop to see how the doctor would react, didn't pause to wonder at the quiet sniffling he heard when he reached the top of the stairs.

The next day, when Sherlock returned from Lestrade's office where he gave a statement, he found Mrs. Hudson waiting for him in the doorway.

"You march right up there and apologize to that man," the sprightly old woman demanded. She let him close the door behind him, crossed her arms and stood in the middle of the hallway, making it impossible for him to pass.

"Mrs. Hudson—"

"I don't want to hear a word." Her usually quiet voice trembled with emotion, and she pointed toward the stairs. "You go apologize to him and make nice. Right now, Sherlock. I mean it."

Sherlock blinked at Mrs. Hudson, determined to stand his ground. He saw how flustered she became as he stood there, not moving toward the stairs. He saw it, and he couldn't stand it. If he could let just this one slide...he could manage it. Just this one.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he sighed. "I've been rotten."

"Right you are," she retorted, fussing with her cardigan. "Now go up there and apologize. He's waiting for you. I left him with a bowl of nibbles and tea for the both of you."

He couldn't help but smile. Not their housekeeper indeed.

Sherlock made for the stairs but stopped and kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek before he took the steps two at a time. He wasn't exactly eager for this next part, but he didn't want to linger and risk being berated by his landlady.

The door was open, but he couldn't see John. He must have been sitting at the desk. The chair the man so favored sat empty in the dusty living room. When was the last time he'd cleaned the place?

He breathed deeply, shuddered when he caught a whiff of John's cologne. Promise or not, the physical attraction was so hard to suppress. Until John came into his life, Sherlock had been relatively a-sexual, and was happy in that position. Then everything turned on its side and left Sherlock to wonder how to right everything when his life 'ended.'

"Are you going to stand out there all afternoon?" John called from the flat.

The detective took another deep breath and let it out slowly. He strode into the flat, looking relaxed and completely at ease while every nerve was on fire with the urge to pounce on the man across the room.

"I thought we ended this discussion," he said in a bored tone.

"No, _you_ ended your one-sided discussion. I've yet to start my side." John glared at Sherlock and uncrossed his legs. This did interesting things to his pants, and Sherlock didn't miss a second of it. "You miraculously appear from nowhere," John said, leaning forward and obstructing the detective's view. "You tell me to bugger off and give me the cold shoulder, and then you tell me you've moved on? What is it with you, Sherlock? Why are you so angry with me? What have I done to deserve this?" His face twisted in an expression of grief and pain. "If anything, it should be me who's furious with you!"

Sherlock watched John, watched the emotions cross his face, watched the other's body language, how tense he became as he spoke. When John rose from the desk and walked toward him, Sherlock blinked slowly. He saw the doctor's lips moving, but heard no sound. Heard nothing but the blood rushing in his ears, felt nothing but the roar of his heart in his chest, felt nothing but the heat in his groin and the tightness of his pants.

John jabbed a finger into Sherlock's chest. His face was red, probably with anger. He was probably shouting, but Sherlock couldn't tell. The blood thundered in his ears; the room tilted on its side.

When John stopped shouting and took another half-step forward, Sherlock reached out with both hands, grabbed the front of John's shirt and shoved him forward onto the desk, bending the shorter man back.

"Sherlock!" The first word he heard, and the last, because the detective leaned over and pressed his lips to John's. He felt the other try to pull away, felt hands push against his chest, a knee pressed against his swollen crotch. The resistance didn't last long. John yielded to Sherlock, but didn't return the kiss.

John sat up slightly, groaning. "You're hurting my back," he mumbled against Sherlock's lips.

In response, Sherlock gripped John's legs and lifted him up, pushing him against the desk again.

"You want to know why I've been so cold to you?" Sherlock breathed as he tore at the buttons on the front of John's shirt.

"Yes, but—hey!" John grabbed for Sherlock's hands when they reached for his belt, but the detective batted him away dismissively.

"No buts," he said firmly. "Do you or do you not want to know?" Sherlock rested his hands on the doctor's thighs and glared at him from less than two feet away. His heart hammered against his chest, spurred not only by arousal, but by fear and reluctance. This had been his core, the only thing that kept Sherlock whole after the incident with Moriarty. But maybe…just maybe, if he could release this foundation and rely upon something—or someone—else, he wouldn't' have to maintain the charade.

"I do." There was such conviction in those two little words. Sherlock understood the frustration John felt, for it was one he shared with the doctor.

Taking a deep, shaking breath, Sherlock steeled himself against what he was about to say.

"On the roof, after Moriarty shot himself, I stood there, terrified. I didn't know how to get out of it without jumping." He looked away from John for a moment. "I've been a selfish man for so long, I've forgotten what it is like to be selfless. It's a terrifying feeling, John. Absolutely horrifying. I've relied upon myself for what I need for as long as I can remember. In that moment, I realized I couldn't do it for you, for Molly, or even for Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I had to do it for myself, or I wouldn't do it at all."

He looked back to John, saw the apprehension in the other's eyes and felt ill.

"I decided then that none of you meant anything to me. Because if I had to choose, you all were my everything, or you were nothing. There is no in between." He cleared his throat, and when he continued, his voice was choked with emotion. "You all were everything I had, and in order to save you, I had to let you go. I had to hate you. I didn't have a choice—"

_SMACK!_

Sherlock blinked, then touched his cheek.

"Shut up," John whispered. His voice shook with barely-contained rage. "You are the most stupid, moronic man I have ever met! Didn't have a choice? Of course you had a bloody choice! You could have…you could've…." He struggled to find the words, and when he came up with nothing, tears gathered in his eyes. "I loved you," he choked finally.

Sherlock wiped a tear from John's cheek with his thumb and shushed him.

"No tears," he said. "Not now." He leaned forward and kissed John once more, moved his hands behind the other and pulled him forward, flush against his front. He pushed John's knees apart and ground his hips against the other's crotch.

John broke the kiss and panted for a moment before he said, "This conversation isn't over, you know."

Smirking, Sherlock moved his hands to John's belt again. "For now it is."

With trembling fingers, the two struggled with their trousers, and once John's were around his thighs, Sherlock leaned down and took the other's head in his mouth.

"God," John moaned, tilting his head back. As Sherlock sucked and bobbed his head, the doctor moved his hand to the other man's hair, gripping and pushing down slightly.

Sherlock pulled back when John moaned particularly loudly and moved in for yet another kiss. These were the sounds he had longed to hear, the tastes he had hungered for.

"Rubber," John murmured. "My wallet."

After retrieving the condom and setting it aside, Sherlock dragged the doctor down off the desk and bent him forward on top of it.

John hissed in discomfort as Sherlock pressed a finger into his entrance.

The detective searched out John's spot and smirked when he found it. He stroked his fingertip over and around it, teasing and abusing the bundle of nerves that set John to twitching.

"Oh Christ, Sherlock," John moaned. His knees started to buckle, but he caught himself and locked one to prevent it happening again.

Sherlock used his other hand to pull the doctor's pants and trousers down around his ankles, then nudged the other's feet apart with one shoe.

John relaxed around Sherlock's finger as he continued to stroke and toy. He used another finger on his other hand to slowly stretch John, little by little. When he was ready, Sherlock pulled his own trousers down around his knees.

Rubbing his length, Sherlock tore open the aluminum packaging of the condom and then slipped the tight sheathe over his length. He angled himself down and started pushing into John. He was thankful for the lubrication the condom provided—it was a tight fit.

"Fuck," John moaned, gripping the far edge of the desk.

Sherlock thrust slowly at first, drinking in the quiet moans and gasps from his lover. He closed his eyes and gripped John's hips, pulling them back slightly with each forward thrust.

"H-harder—anngh!" John groaned. Such an undignified sound for such a respectable man. The indignity brought a smile to Sherlock's lips as he complied, thrusting his hips harder and faster.

John clawed at the desk and bit his lip to stifle a cry of pleasure, lest Mrs. Hudson hear. The door was, after all, still wide open.

"Mnn," Sherlock groaned as he thrust. He leaned forward and reached around John to stroke his length in time with his hips. "Did you miss this?" he purred into the other's ear. He moved his lithe fingers to the doctor's balls and rubbed one, squeezing it ever so gently, rolling it in his fingertips. "Did you miss feeling me inside of you?"

The doctor tried to respond, but his voice choked into another moan as Sherlock pulled out almost completely and began to thrust shallowly. The lip of his head rubbed along John's spot, and he shuddered and shivered in delight. He moved his hand to his length while Sherlock's moved back to his hips and he stroked himself desperately.

"Close," he whispered, "so close."

Sherlock clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Can't have that now, can we?" he said, pulling out. He stepped back from John and kicked off his shoes, pulling his trousers off the rest of the way. "Take off your trousers and pants," he said as he walked toward the door.

John complied quickly, eager to continue. He waited for Sherlock to come back from closing the door, and when he returned, John lay back on the desk so he could pull his legs up.

"Tell me what you want," Sherlock purred, pressing his head against John's entrance. He rocked his hips so just his tip entered the other.

"I want you," John croaked, gripping himself with one hand.

"Where do you want me?" Sherlock pressed, leaning down to kiss John's chest. His tongue traced a light circle around the other's nipple, teasing the darker flesh until it stood at attention.

"Ins-side me," the doctor stammered. "I want you inside me. For God's sake, Sherlock, fuck me!"

Sherlock grinned and slid into the other again. He thrust into John with new energy, batting the doctor's hand away and palming the other's length.

John moaned and raised his arms so he could grip the edge of the desk on either side of his head. He shivered when Sherlock nipped his neck.

"Sh-Sherlock!" the doctor cried. "I'm coming." His back arched, pushing his torso up off the desk as his seed pumped onto his chest, hot and wet. He relaxed back onto the desk as Sherlock's rhythm became more erratic. The detective's breath came faster, and the wet sound of their skin slapping together filled the room.

With a grunt, Sherlock tilted his head back and moaned softly. He leaned on his hands against the desk and looked down at John. For a moment, he seemed to consider something, then shook his head and closed his eyes. He pulled out of John and turned away.

"Sherlock, wait," John said anxiously, sitting up and staggering off the desk. He followed Sherlock to the bathroom and stood outside when the door slammed shut in his face. The lock clicked on the door handle, and he stared at it, feeling dejected.

"Go away John," Sherlock called over the noise of the shower.

"Please, Sherlock! Why can't we just talk about this? Damn you!"

Five minutes after John paced away from the door, it opened and Sherlock stepped out with a towel around his waist.

"There's nothing to talk about," he said coldly.

John had dressed himself and now stood in front of the desk, looking confused.

"I don't understand," he said. "We just—"

"We just what, John?" Sherlock demanded, turning to look at the doctor. "What _exactly_ do you think we just did?" When he received no answer, he plowed forward. "Did you think we were mending bridges?" he pressed. "That everything would be okay after we fucked?" He shook his head and gathered his clothes. "I'm afraid not, John." He slipped into his clothes again and straightened his collar.

"So that…that was all pointless?" John stammered. "You still…I still mean nothing to you?"

Sherlock stared straight ahead, pointedly away from John. He'd tried. He had tried to let go of the fear, the helplessness. He had tried to remember the affection he felt toward John and the others, but he had convinced himself that none of them meant anything to him. That conviction ran deep—too deep for him to uproot it in just a measly half hour.

"What do you want, John?" he asked suddenly. "What do you want most in the world?"

It took John a long time to reply, and Sherlock thought he wasn't going to. Then he said in a quiet, defeated voice, "I want to be loved." He sounded weary…pathetic.

Sherlock smirked and stepped toward John. His hand moved to the other's cheek, and he leaned forward until John's eyes closed. He stopped.

"You are a better man than me," he breathed against the doctor's lips. "Oh, John. If only there was someone out there who loved you."

When Sherlock pulled away, John looked at him with tears in his eyes. His lip quivered, and he balled his hands into fists. He stepped around the detective and stalked out of the house, slamming the door shut.

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock said, slipping his hands into his pockets.


End file.
